31. Chapter 31
31
Konstantin
T he shower’s steam chokes the air, black stone walls slick under my palms, water scalding my back, tracing scars no one’s dared touch. My cock’s sore, raw from her—Bella—and govno , I curse under my breath, the hiss lost in the spray.
Twice now.
Twice I fucked her bare, no rubber, no sense. She’s on the pill, clean—I know, I checked, every detail locked down before the contract—but knowing doesn’t kill the dread clawing my gut. A kid, a tie, a crack in the walls I’ve built—that’s not the deal. Not with her; she’s just a contract. I slam a fist against the tile, knuckles stinging, and the pain’s good, sharp, grounding.
No more mistakes. Not again.
I shove my head under the spray, water slicing across my face, flooding my eyes, ears, mouth.
Calm the fuck down.
My hands brace against the tile as I drag in air like it’ll cool the blood rushing south. It doesn’t. Doesn’t matter that the water’s scalding, that I’m forcing myself to stand still while everything in me wants to take. Again. Harder.
Pizdets.
I shouldn’t still be hard just thinking about her. But the image of her riding me, trembling, hair wild, her voice breaking when she begged—it’s burned behind my eyes. The way she called my name, her nails scraping my shoulders, her thighs trembling as she came, squeezing me dry.
Suddenly, I realize how close she is—her room, just steps away, no locks to keep me out—but I’m here, alone, washing her off, or trying. My shoulders tense, muscles knotted from the confines of the Cullinan, from holding her, from feeling her.
I should’ve walked away. Pulled out. Said nothing.
Instead?
I held her. Kissed her.
Let my lips brush her temple like a goddamn love-struck idiot.
I twist the faucet.
Hotter.
The water turns blistering, punishing, exactly how I need it. Just to remind myself. This isn’t softness. This isn’t real.
I don’t fuck raw.
I don’t hold women after.
I don’t think about them once I’m gone.
But I’m still in that damn car with her. Still inside her. Still hearing her say my name like it means something.
I hate it; hate how my pulse kicks, how my cock twitches even now, sore as it is.
I grit my teeth, let the hot water pound my neck, and force the thought down.
The game’s mine, always mine, and wanting her is a loss I won’t take.
I shut the water off with a violent twist. Step out. Don’t need a towel. The air in the bathroom is humid enough to drink. I grab it anyway and wipe the back of my neck. Everything else can drip dry.
I move in silence through the private wing, the tile cold under my feet.
My room is a study in restraint. Leather. Charcoal. Obsidian. The fire pit at the center glows low, just enough to throw shadows across the floor. The bed—four-poster, custom, built like a fortress—sits untouched.
I pull on black lounge pants. No shirt. No bullshit.
I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for my phone. It’s where I left it, screen-down on the nightstand beside the hidden fingerprint scanner.
I flip it over.
Isabella. Not Bella. Not “wife.” Just the name on the contract. Clean. Distant. The way it needs to stay.
I type.
ME: Be ready by 6 a.m. tomorrow. You’re needed at the office. Meetings start at seven sharp. No delays, no excuses. Wear something that says Director, not hostage. Don’t fuck this up.
It’s cold, clipped, every word a wall, laying out her job—make Alya’s first day smooth, no chaos, no excuses. My thumb hovers then hits send, the screen glowing harshly in the dark.
Read.
But no reply.
Of course.
I stare at the screen longer than I should. The fire pops behind me. One log shifts. Still no message back.
She saw it. She’s choosing silence.
Good.
That’s how it should be. Clear lines. No confusion.
I start typing again. Can’t help it.
ME: Your car’s in Garage One. Aston Martin. Matte gunmetal. Fingerprint ignition. Manual’s in the glove-box. GPS set to the office. Try not to crash.
Send.
Read.
Still nothing.
No sarcasm. No eye-roll emoji. Not even a “K.” Just dead air.
She’s either angry or playing a game.
And I’m an idiot for caring which.
I toss the phone onto the bed beside me and scrub a hand over my face. This is how mistakes happen. Emotional slippage. You fuck once, you walk away. You fuck twice without protection, and suddenly, you’re picturing her in your house, at your table, wearing your ring like she belongs.
I glance toward the hallway.
Her door’s down the corridor. Past the library. Past the untouched piano she pretends not to notice.
I could check on her. See if the message landed. Hear her say something biting. Watch the way her lips twitch when she’s trying not to smile.
I could go to her.
I don’t.
Because if I do, I’ll end up back inside her. And this time, I won’t stop until she breaks.
Or I do.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, fingers steepled under my chin. The fire casts slow-moving shadows over the walls, long and distorted, like everything in this house.
I reach for the tablet on the end table. One flick and the music kicks in—slow strings, the kind I used to play during negotiations when I needed to sound calm while I gutted someone’s career.
Now, it just makes me think of her. The sounds she made when I had her pinned. How she moaned when I told her not to look away.
I turn the volume down.
There’s half a glass of scotch left from when I was here earlier. I finish it. No pause. No thinking. The burn helps. Not enough. I pour again. Two fingers. Clean.
Security feeds hum on as I examine the tablet. Kitchen—empty. Foyer—clear. Upstairs hall… Light under her door.
She’s still awake.
Of course she is.
I switch the screen off.
Ledger’s already open on my desk. Zoning maps, sales comps, my notes in black ink. Clean lines. Structure. Numbers that always make sense.
Not tonight.
I start the Westmont bid. Land values. Easements. Something about permits. I get as far as a single figure before I cross it out. Doesn’t matter. My head’s not in it.
"Please, Konstantin… don’t stop."
Her voice cuts through everything. Like she’s still here. Still under me.
My jaw tightens. I press harder on the pen. Ink bleeds across the page.
I shut the book.
Pacing helps. Sort of. I move from the fireplace to the liquor tray, then back again. I don’t look at the door. Not once. If I do, I’m going to her room. And that’s not happening.
I flip open the console behind the bookshelf. Steel panel, flush with the wall. I load up a different track. Shostakovich. Something aggressive. Something I thought might drown her out.
It doesn’t.
The clock says 1:03 a.m.
My body’s shot. Every muscle tight from training, from the Cullinan, from fucking her like I forgot who I was.
I should sleep.
I should shut this down, kill the lights, close my eyes, and let the night pass without incident. That’s what control looks like. That’s what it used to look like.
But I’m still awake. Still pacing. Still wired like I just stepped off the battlefield.
The fire’s burning low now—just embers licking at the glass screen. The scotch is gone. The music’s still going, dissonant strings slicing through the air. I don’t hear the notes anymore, just the hum of adrenaline that won’t quit.
I stop moving when I hear it. Three knocks. Not hesitant. Not soft. Measured. Direct.
The other door.
The one that leads to her suite. The one she wasn’t supposed to know about. I told the staff not to mention it. Told myself I’d never use it.
I stare at the panel for a beat.
Then I cross the room and flip the lock.
The door swings open—
And there she is.
Bella.
No, Isabella . But not how she looked in the office. Not how she looked in that dress I tore off her hours ago. Not polished, not composed.
Barefoot. Shoulders tense. Hair loose around her face like she didn’t bother brushing it after the shower. And the gown—
The one I picked.
Black silk, low at the back, thin where it matters. It clings to her curves, drapes down her thighs like it was poured on, but stops just short of soft. There’s a slit up one side, enough to flash skin when she walks. Expensive. Tailored. Intentionally indecent.
She crosses her arms, but that doesn’t hide the way the neckline dips. No bra. No effort to pretend this is innocent.
Her eyes narrow. Jaw tight. Lips parted like she’s still deciding whether to yell or stab me.
“We need to talk.”
I step closer, crowding her, jaw tight. Her scent—clean, warm, her—hits like a fist, and my hands itch to grab, to pull, but I hold back, barely.
“You got a problem, Isabella?” I say like I don’t care. I do. Too much. Her glare doesn’t waver, but her breath catches, quick, and I see it—the flush on her neck, the way the silk shifts when she moves, daring me to snap.
“Yeah,” she says, stepping in, bold, stupid.
“You don’t get to order me like a dog.”
She’s close now— too close—standing in the center of my room like she owns the air in it. Her chin tilts up, jaw sharp, but she’s a head shorter. Her face levels with my chest, and I feel every breath she takes—tight, pissed off, unapologetic.
“You want this to be a job?” she snaps. “Fine. I know the terms. I know what I signed. One year. Appearances. Shut up and smile. Spread my legs and don’t ask questions—got it.”
My jaw clenches.
She keeps going. “But I’m not going to play mute just because you’re used to barking orders and watching everyone fall in line like good little soldiers. That might work with your men, but I’m not yours.”
Her chest rises fast, lips tight. I catch the flicker of emotion in her eyes—something sharp, personal. Hurt, maybe. Resentment, definitely.
“And for the record?” She jabs a finger toward the phone still sitting on the bed behind me. “I don’t need your fancy car. Betsy is fine.”
I blink. “Betsy?”
Her glare sharpens. “My car. The Neon.”
“You named it?”
“Whatever.” She waves it off like I’m the ridiculous one. “Point is, you don’t get to treat me like I’m disposable. Even if you think I am.”
I don’t speak.
I don’t move.
Because I’m too busy trying not to fuck her again right here against the doorframe.
Her bare feet are planted, steady. Her silk gown offers a teasing a glimpse of thigh with every breath. Her hands are clenched, eyes locked on mine, mouth tight.
And all I can think is: “Jesus. That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
She steps closer, and now she’s right there . Head just under my chin. Eyes on fire.
“If you think I’m going to roll over and thank you for treating me like furniture, you’ve picked the wrong girl.”
I stare down at her, letting the silence stretch until she shifts slightly, chest brushing mine.
“Are you done?” I ask.
She blinks. “No. Not even close.”
Good.
Because I’m not, either.
I move before she can blink again.
One arm hooks under her thighs, the other around her back. She gasps—too slow to stop it—as I lift her clean off the floor like she weighs nothing.
“What the—? Konstantin!”
She grabs at my shoulder, instinct more than anything, but it’s too late. I’ve already crossed the threshold.
The door slams shut behind us, the lock clicking back into place like punctuation. I don’t give her time to ask questions. Don’t give her space to push away.
“Konstantin—what the hell—?”
“Quiet.”
Just that. One word, low and final.
Her mouth parts, ready to fire back—but nothing comes out.
Her eyes stay locked on mine. Wide. Angry. But underneath it— Yeah. Lust. Thick and undeniable.